


Stories of Thedas

by wardenvtabris



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-03
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-03-13 06:14:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 5,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28523781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wardenvtabris/pseuds/wardenvtabris
Summary: Short stories from Talvi's "stories of thedas" prompts. Mostly with OCs, for now.
Relationships: Fenris/Male Hawke, Leliana/Female Surana (Dragon Age), Zevran Arainai/Female Tabris
Kudos: 13





	1. New Beginnings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vespyr Tabris leaves her home with many regrets. She accepts and punishes herself for the mistakes made, vowing to do better in her new life.

The coin purse was light when it landed in her hands, but by then, it was too late. The guilt that crushed upon her shoulders as it touched her palm was heavy and suffocating. 

Vespyr took the bribe with only a moment to deliberate and she knew, trudging down the steps back into the Denerim alienage, that Shianni’s face would haunt her for the rest of her life. The Grey Warden told her of the nightmares their order faced, how the dark and dreary song plagued their minds and left them restless. Vespyr didn’t believe that anything could unsettle her more than the memory of what she had done, the horrors she had condoned, and the shame she carried as she left her home behind. In the moment, somehow, she had convinced herself it was right. Who was she, really, to take on the son of an arl and all his guardsmen? For all her talk and all her might, she had doubted herself then. And the jingle of sovereigns perked her pointed ears. She imagined feeding her family, her neighbors, her loved ones with that money. Vaughan Kendells would never miss what amounted to spare change for a man of the nobility. The good that she imagined it could do for her community left Vespyr blindsided. But more than anything, she was scared, and this was her way out. Take this gold and she could walk away, so long as she left her cousin and the other women to their fates. Nelaros had laid dead in the hallways and all Vespyr could think about was how trapped she felt. She was covered in blood that was not hers, carrying dull blades dipped in crimson and rust, and yet somehow, the way that Vaughan and his men regarded her made her feel small. Weak. Foolish. So she took the gold and left the arl’s estate.  
In the end, she didn’t even get to keep it.

Vespyr left with the Grey Warden willingly. She would not meet Valendrian’s eyes and she would not acknowledge the audience that watched her walk of shame from the alienage. Duncan’s frame was not quite large enough to hide behind, and even if it were, he would not let her. There was a tenseness between them that Vespyr refused to resolve even in the weeks that followed, despite his stories and gentle, almost fatherly demeanor. Vespyr only listened and glared, and when she was not listening or walking or finding means to survive on the road, she was near abusing herself in training. Forcing her body to grow muscle where it was thin and accustoming her arms to the weight of a greatsword was no easy task. Even at the warden’s urgings to rest, she would not let up.

Never again did she intend to feel weak. Never again would she be so helpless. Never again would Vespyr look at her reflection and not be reminded of what she had done. Vespyr was not worthy of the Grey Wardens, that she knew, but she intended to remedy that. Whatever life she had been expecting to live before was out of reach now. This would be a second chance and a new beginning; nothing would stop her from seizing that as hard as she could.


	2. Bad Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Neria Surana's mercy had the consequence of losing her best friend. She feels his absence when he is no longer there to consult with after bad dreams but finds unexpected comfort in a new companion.

It was familiar, by now, waking with such a violent start. Neria had learned how to calm the surge of adrenaline that forced her body awake as the archdemon’s nightmares drove her over the edge and pushed her into the waking world. She took steady breaths, holding fistfuls of blanket tight against her chest, and slowly her heart rate began to settle. Looking down at the redheaded woman sharing her tent, Neria was glad to see she still slept peacefully. It always made her feel guilty when her own tainted nightmares disrupted Leliana’s rest, as well. Neria’s mind and body were still groggy and tired, but she forced herself into an awkward crouch nonetheless to escape her tent. It was part of the routine, after all. Every time it happened, they would meet each other at the fire, check on one another, confirm that they were still safe and the camp’s location would not be compromised-  
Neria was staggered when the man’s eyes she met across the low burning fire were not Alistair’s. Suddenly, her sleepy mind was waking itself up. She was returning to reality and her eyes began to sting, remembering suddenly that they were not sore and puffy from interrupted sleep, but from a full day of regretful sobbing. It made her chest squeeze so tight she thought it would pop.

“The...dreams,” Loghain spoke to her, gruff and troubled. “I presume it is another quirk of the joining?” 

Neria shook the expression of shock from her face. Slowly, she nodded, and her wide eyes softened. A deep sigh escaped the elf. It was uncharacteristic of her. She emerged herself from the tent fully and immediately missed the warmth that her lover offered from the Ferelden cold. With her arms crossed tight across her chest, she sought out a seat near the dwindling and flickering fire. Its heat gave her some comfort and the stiffness in her shoulders eased. The two wardens sat in silence. Neria could not think of what to say. It hurt her even more to realize this, knowing how different things would be if Alistair were there. He would come to her, concerned, and then crack a joke that made her laugh despite the weariness and fear. They would be sitting by each other and Neria would lay her head against his ever-comforting shoulder. Some nights, when the shared nightmares had been worse, they may have even fallen asleep in that way to be woken in the morning by the rising sun. For the rest of the day, they would both reek of campfire and complain of soreness in their backs from sleeping so uncomfortably. Zevran would offer the both of them a message then they’d all laugh at the way Alistair’s face grew red at the proposition. Neria’s heart clenched at the memory.  
Instead, Neria sat distanced from the Hero of River Dane. The man she had respected and spent so much of her youth studying, idolizing, was so much different now. And yet, even after everything, she could not despise him. She could not hate him the way that Alistair did. Of course, she understood his anger. Neria had only thought that he loved their friendship more than he hated the broken, misguided man that was Loghain Mac Tir. There was nothing that she had ever been so wrong about. 

“They are worse when you are new- the nightmares, I mean. Alistair told me that.” Neria’s voice croaked at the mention of her dearest friend. Still, she smiled almost fondly. The man regarded her with his dark eyes while the young woman shook with each breath, determined not to let her pain bring her to tears again. “He also...He also told me that after The Joining, you gain a healthy appetite. The two of us go through our food stores so fast, it costs a fortune. And there was a story he told me about when he first had dinner with-...” For a moment, Neria’s spirit had returned, only to fade and fizzle out when she looked up from the entrancing fire to see the harsh features of Loghain’s face. He was listening, but she no longer had the desire to tell old stories recounted by Alistair all those months ago. It felt like years ago now. The memories of the nightmare that had woken her were vague now. Neria wondered if she should just retire back to her tent, crawl into her bedroll next to Leliana and hope for a peaceful sleep. Instead, she folded her legs until her knees were held to her chest. Her chin propped atop them and her hair settled, allowing for just the tips of her ears to poke out from curtains of red.

“Teryn Loghain-”

“Just Loghain, Warden. I no longer hold such titles,” He corrected. Neria pursed her lips, nodding in understanding. She hugged her legs a little tighter and her toes dug into the grass of their campsite. 

“Loghain,” Neria continued, her address of the man revised. “Would you...would you tell me a story? From your days with King Maric?” The request was made so innocently and sincerely. The elf’s eyes were red and puffy still as they bore into Loghain and he was taken aback. His dark, arched brows furrowed. The deep wrinkles of his face made his expression hard for Neria to read as he contemplated her request. Patiently, she waited and was as still as stone.

“As you command, Warden. I suppose I have tales not written in any history book…”

Neria did not receive a comforting shoulder. She did not spend the dreadfully early hours of the morning trading jokes and making silly, wishful plans for her life after the Blight. She did, however, spend that cold night in the company of a brilliant man and excellent storyteller. He made it easier to forget, if only for a moment, that the weight of the world still rested upon her shoulders. When her eyelids grew too heavy to keep open and the fire had died down to a mere and humble lick of flames, Neria was able to bid her fellow warden a goodnight with a smile. It was tired and sad, harder than anything to push upon her face, yet she could have sworn that Loghain returned the gesture, if only for a moment. She missed Alistair but that night, she was glad to find out that she would not be alone when the nightmares came.


	3. Faith

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Neria visits the Orzammar Chantry she helped establish before setting off on her hunt for Paragon Branka. She confides her fears in Burkel, a man who shares her faith, and reflects on the role the Maker has thrust upon her.

Orzammar had put Neria under its spell. She loved the deep orange glow of the magma that bathed every building in a comforting tint. She found the warmth and the feeling of being beneath the surface to be like a welcome, persistent hug that heated her robes to be soothing against her skin. She walked the length of the Commons, only just barely avoiding collision as she stared distracted up at the beautiful expanse of the cavern that the Dwarves called home. And oh, the Dwarves! Neria found the culture, history, and lives of the people to be endlessly fascinating. The elf was completely captivated. The former Prince Bhelen had died by her unwilling hand and King Harrowmont wore the Caridin-crafted crown upon his head. There was peace in Orzammar, for now, and as her reward for her efforts in the Deep Roads, Neria was finally given time to venture the city and take in all it had to teach her.

The hour had grown late, though there was no indication of it other than the time shown upon the clock in the Shaperate and the strained, tired heaviness of Neria’s eyelids. The knowledge-hungry mage had spent most of her day in the Dwarven Hall of Memories and it had treated her well. Politely, the shaper Czibor finally urged her to leave after endless hours of studying history etched in lyrium and stone. It was growing time to retire. She wandered after that, pleased to end such a long day of study with a full and satisfying head of knowledge. Her feet led her back down to the Commons, where she supposed she would cap off her evening with a drink at Tapster’s. She figured she would find one or more of her companions there with which to enjoy gingerly sipping at the potent ale served. Neria was near the tavern, ready to enter the overwhelming atmosphere that she knew would be the exact opposite of the calm of the Shaperate. Something had caught her eye, though- the symbol of the Chantry. It was that blazing sun stamped into the metal door of Orzammar’s newest religious establishment that pulled Neria away from the route to Tapster’s. There would be a change in plans. 

Orzammar’s Chantry was the very definition of humble. Neria had expected no less, but taking a step into the low-ceilinged building gave her a sense of comfort and familiarity. Over a month now had she gone without visiting a place of worship. Between the long trek up the Frostbacks and her expedition past Caridin’s Cross, time and location had not permitted her the opportunity to seek out a chantry. Now, thanks to her work and pleading with the shapers, the chant had reached beneath Thedas. She smiled, seeing the two limited rows of pews and altar at the head of them. It widened when, from a smaller room to the side, Brother Burkel emerged into the main hall and nearly dropped a burning candle onto the stone floors. He stammered for a moment, eyes wide with surprise at Neria’s presence.

“Grey Warden! I had heard that you had returned from your expedition, but I had not thought you would return to visit. With what you’ve done for Orzammar...Well, I only figured you had forgotten about the chantry here. Please, come sit!” Burkel had recollected himself under Neria’s patient and amused gaze. He stumbled for a moment, then extended his arm towards the pews, beckoning for her to join him.

“Call me Neria, brother, please. I’m so glad to see you have settled. It’s good to feel the Maker’s love here, after all of these turbulent weeks. I know you will bring relief to those who seek comfort here.” Neria walked with the scholar down the short row of pews, settling into a seat in one of the benches closest to the altar. The dwarf sat at her side, leaving a respectful distance between them where he placed the candle he carried. She looked around at the rest of the room, admiring the gentle lighting and cozy confinement it offered. This was a fine chantry, she thought. There was no need for the grandeur that accompanied what she would consider the structural standard of a chantry to be. So long as there was worship for the Maker and The Chant, all else would fall into place. 

“It’s an honor to have you here, Miss Neria. I know the Maker sent you to us to see that I could bring his praise to this city. It has been many weeks now, let me tell you of what I’ve accomplished here.” And so he did. Neria sat, listening intently as she always would, and smiled to hear that Burkel had grown a small group of Andrastian converts, all seeking his aid and wisdom. Many dwarves had crept in from Dust Town and Burkel told her proudly of the lives he had set on the righteous path, providing food and shelter and medicine to those who needed it. Neria’s chest swelled with joy to hear of his accomplishments. He asked of her as well, hoping to learn what she had experienced in the Deep Roads. She spoke freely, though it troubled him.   
“The darkspawn…” He said, grimacing after Neria recounted the grim horrors she experienced. “They are a fearsome threat, Miss Neria. The Maker’s hand surely guides the Grey Wardens in expelling them.” Burkel heaved a troubled sigh. Their conversation had become solemn as they both sat on the wooden pew, considering all that had passed between them. Neria became fixated on the flames of the numerous candles lit along the walls. She never had a knack for elemental magic, but she was skilled enough to make the dancing flames still and weaken, dimming the room slightly. 

“I fear what will happen when they come, Brother. There were so many and I... There are only two of us wardens in the country. Will we be enough? Will…” Neria’s expression saddened. “Will I be enough, brother, to fulfill this duty? Will the Maker truly guide me?” A hand fell atop hers. It was small, fingers stubby and thick, but warm and reassuring. Neria looked up from the weak flames of the candles and found more comfort in the brother’s eyes. He was soft, earnest, and the gentle smile on his face was so certain. Neria wished she shared his faith. 

“He will, Miss Neria. This responsibility is yours and He shall see you through it. I know it.”


	4. Picnics

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fihari Lavellan enjoys a moment of calm with her companion. Cullen, as always, ruins the fun.

Lungs full of crisp, fresh air made Fihari feel at home. She breathed in, enjoying the way that the cold and gentle winds of the Frostbacks bit at her skin and made her squint. It was slightly uncomfortable, sure, but the ability to feel and experience and live was a privilege not unappreciated by the Inquisitor. Not after so many grueling battles. Not after so many close calls. From where she sat, the view was extraordinary. On one side, the walkway of the battlements was kept busy with soldiers and agents passing by, each one greeting her with a quiet “Your Worship”. She could see the bustle of the entire courtyard, the merchants selling wares and goods near the main gate, and further off, horse master Dennet rangled with her lively Hart. To her other side, the wide expanse of the mountains was laid bare for her to observe. Looking down, she watched her legs dangle over a perilous drop. Fihari felt no fear at these heights, though. Only freedom. She took a sip from the bottle of wine that had accompanied her there and enjoyed the way it helped warm her from the inside out.

“Are you enjoying that, Cole?” Fihari inclined her head towards the companion that had joined her on this picnic. Between them was a modest feast of pastry and sweet rolls, all nabbed straight out of the oven. Cole had brought them and Fihari was sure she would hear later about a batch of baked goods gone missing. The once spirit, now human, held a pale and puffy treat gingerly in his wrapped hand. Pieces of glaze and flakes settled on the battlements ramp all around him, dusting his clothes as well. He looked up from the treat, staring with wide and ghostly blue eyes past the brim of his hat.

“Am I supposed to?” Cole was so curious, so sincere and kind that his tone always made Fihari smile and even giggle a little. She merely shrugged. The glass bottle she held was offered out to him. Hesitantly, he took it from her, and Fihari plucked another pastry from the unfolded cloth while she returned to gazing at the stillness of the Frostbacks. Cole coughed, spluttered, and Fihari’s attention was turned to him again. She looked at him with concern while he set the bottle harshly back down at her side. “I do not think I enjoyed that!” The elf shook her head and laughed. She would have indulged herself in more of the alcohol- if Cole didn’t like it, that just meant more for her! But, of course, a familiar displeased and distinctly Ferelden voice came to ruin her well-spent afternoon. 

“Inquisitor Lavellan? It’s not safe up there! Please come down at once, we are waiting for you at the war table!” Fihari rolled her eyes so violently her head was thrown back and she groaned quietly in annoyance.

“Coming, Commander!” She called down to Cullen. Sighing, Fihari fell gracefully from the high ramp back onto the walkway. Her wine and treats were to be left in the safe company of Cole. A smile came upon her face as she reached up for the young man, cupping his face on either side. She patted his cheeks affectionately, as per the usual when saying farewell to her dear friend. “Another time, then, Cole. Thank you for the company.”


	5. The Artist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warden-Commander Vespyr Tabris sits for a portrait. At least, she tries to.

“My lady, please sit still!”

Vespyr made a disgusted sound at the Denerim artist. It was the eighth time they had had such an exchange that afternoon. No matter how much she glowered and glared and threatened, the man would not let her leave her position until he was satisfied with his work. He was dedicated, Vespyr would give him that, and almost matched Vespyr in ferocity. The elf didn’t often come upon people who would stand their ground against her cold gaze, especially nowadays. In truth, her aggravation was projected more so towards the newly seated king, who had insisted she sit for a proper portrait. She was, after all, the Hero of Ferelden! The way he had grinned, knowing just how to get under his friend’s skin, made Vespyr’s temper boil thinking about it even then. Maker, she hated that man sometimes.

“I have been here for hours! Do you truly not know what I look like by now?” The woman barked back but received no acknowledgment as the artist continued his work, ignoring the temperamental subject. She rolled her eyes, defeated for the time being, and straightened her spine again. It was uncomfortable, was all, to be under surveillance for so long. They had prettied her up in all sorts of frivolous ways. Wine colored blush dusted the dark skin of her cheeks and her eyelashes had been curled- a process she found incredibly invasive, though she sat through it. The crimson lipstick, she did not mind. It was a staple of hers already. But her hair had been released to fall long and white over her shoulders and that bothered her most of all. She was constantly trying to fix it, pushing the strands of snow behind her pointed ears. Of course, each time she did so she was scolded by the artist for trying to sabotage the most important commission of his career. It didn’t help much that her lover, as attentive to detail as he was, insisted on overseeing the progress of her portrait. He had ample suggestions for the artist, as expected.

“Lovely work, my friend- but look there. Do you see that? The curve of her breasts is all wrong. If you made them rounder-”

“Zevran.” With a stern utterance of his name, the rogue fell silent, putting his hands up in surrender. He stepped away from the artist’s easel, apologetic. She tried to uphold her glare, she was annoyed at him, but his playful smirk was a quick remedy to that. Vespyr couldn’t help herself from huffing in amusement and smiling at his antics.

“There! There, your expression, your smile! Hold that!” The artist’s eyes widened and he was bursting with excitement, flailing his brush out at Vespyr as if that would convince her to listen. Zevran flinched when a speck of brown paint flew back onto his face. Immediately, Vespyr’s expression fell flat into a frown, her white eyebrows pinched.

“No.”


	6. Remembrance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> News of the Hero of Ferelden reaches a tavern in the Free Marches.

It was nearly two weeks before the news had crossed the Waking Sea and reached the Free Marches. A bar sat nestled on the southern coastline, humble and old and full of stories. Located near the port, it served travelers fresh off the boat, aching for ale and company. One such traveler interrupted the merry laughter and cheer of its patrons. He slammed open the door and nearly took the old thing off its hinges. Behind him, orange light from the setting sun seeped into the building.

“It’s over! The Fereldens ended the blight! They killed the archdemon!” A moment of silence and then, all at once, the room erupted. Cheers, questions, shouts- the man bearing news was swarmed. 

“They did it? With only two Wardens?”

“What happened to that old tyrant ruling over them?”

“Who made the killing blow, then? Bet he’s being drowned in all kinds of awards right now!”

“It was a woman, actually- an elf!” The man corrected, only able to get out a few words before he was being pelted with questions again. He was whisked away by the crowd while the bartender began pouring out another round of drinks. For a small coastal town like theirs, this would be the biggest news for weeks. Everyone was eager to hear the story this man brought with him from the dog lord country. There was only one seemingly uninterested: a man in light armor, a beautifully crafted sword at his hip, sitting alone. He’d been staying in the tavern for days now and was a refugee from Ferelden. Nobody had been able to get more from him than that and nobody tried. Day in and day out, he sat isolated and drank. Then, he would drink some more. And then even more. As soon as the story broke, a bitterness washed over him and he frowned, looking down and away from the excitement. The flagon of ale cradled between his two hands was squeezed tight and he listened. All of the insistent chatter began to die down as the messenger got himself a drink and settled into a barstool.

“They’re calling her the Hero of Ferelden. She’s some elven mage who built an army after surviving Ostagar. She killed the blighted dragon but died doing it. They’re making some great tomb for her up in the Anderfels, I heard.”

“A damned hero, then.”

“Aye.” For a while, the men were solemn, contemplating. The bartender spoke up next. She was an elven woman herself, dark and freckled and ferocious. A mug was pulled from behind the bar, quickly filled, and she raised it up high.

“For the Hero,” She said, and all of the men echoed the bartender in agreement. They honored the Hero with a long sip of good brew and continued the night talking of Ferelden, of Blights, and of the woman who saved the rest of Thedas from doom. Amidst the booming conversation and cheers of drunken men, nobody had noticed when the one who sat alone began to tremble. He shook, hunched over his ale, and remembered Neria- Neria Surana was her name. Not once did he hear the men who celebrated her even mention her name. Silent tears dribbled down his face. A warden, a would-be king, and now a drunk had lost his appetite for alcohol. His stomach wrenched every which way, seeing his friend’s smiling face when she laughed at his lame jokes or when she walked with him side-by-side. They had gone everywhere together since the moment they met. He remembered, once, that she said nobody made her feel safer. Made her feel more at home. Then, he remembered those blue eyes filled with tears as he walked away. The gaze of every nobleman in the country watched him abandon his bloodline, his order, and his friend. No matter how Neria begged and pleaded, he couldn’t forgive her. It made him angry to think of it and it made him seethe even more to know that it was she who died and not the traitor who had been spared. The Maker had a sick and cruel sense of humor, he thought.   
The man left the tavern before he could hear any more. He placed a sovereign next to his unfinished drink, donned his thick cloak, and slipped out into the night without incident. The air was cold and when he closed his eyes, he felt like he was back on the road of Ferelden again. If he opened them, he would see his best friend at his side, somehow smiling instead of shivering. Alistair sighed. It was time to move on...if that was at all possible.


	7. Wicked Grace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Turns out, it's not just a stereotype- elves never do pay their debts. Based on a random banter between Fenris and Varric.

“You still owe me five sovereigns, elf,” Varric chided suddenly. The party had stopped in Lowtown, lingering in the alienage after a visit to their Dalish companion. Hawke was frowning down at the small pocket journal of tasks he kept with him at all times. It was the perfect opportunity for the dwarf to sneak up to Fenris’ side and banter with the one he called Broody.

“I’m good for it,” Fenris reassured, but he failed to be convincing. He tried to escape further questioning by stepping away from Varric and closer to the hulking Champion’s side. Garrett was only half paying attention. He looked up from the journal, his finger still tracing the lines of a sketched out map, and raised an eyebrow at his lover. Fenris ignored him.

“So what that really means,” Varric continued, persistent, “is that you’ll be ‘borrowing’ the money from Hawke again.” The comment caused Anders, otherwise silent, to scoff. He remained detached from the conversation while Fenris crossed his arms and moved closer to Hawke again. It was another attempt at evading Varric's accusations. Still, his expression was smug. The man pushed himself onto the balls of his feet to glance over Hawke’s shoulder and look properly at what he was examining. It was the usual; scribbled notes, simple maps, lists of names, locations, and tasks. He was doing a poor job at feigning interest in it. “Will you still be joining us at the Hanged Man for Wicked Grace?” Varric was teasing now to break the silence. 

“I wouldn’t miss it.” The elf smirked. He knew he was guilty of debts paid late, sometimes not at all. Finally, Hawke was putting his book away safely into the pocket at his hip. He had to laugh at Fenris and had half a mind to dig through his coin pouch and pay Varric off right then and there. At this rate, Garrett would have to start giving Fenris an allowance. But it was not as if he minded the idea much; somehow, he found something charming about how awful his partner was at Wicked Grace. Shaking his head, amused, Hawke began to walk and his companions fell right into step. They were off to Hightown for the rest of the evening. 

“You only like me for my money, don’t you, Fenris?” 

“Perhaps.”


	8. Letters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Leliana receives a final letter from her love.

The service was beautiful.  
Yet it still left Leliana feeling hollow, void. Queen Anora gave a speech so regally in Neria’s honor, gave her titles and praise, and rewarded liberties to the Circle in her name. But what good would that do a corpse? Leliana knew she was being unfair. Neria would have been so happy to see the nation she loved dearly being healed and restored. It was everything she wanted, but Leliana only wanted her.   
After the ceremony, the humble crowd dispersed. Outside the gates of the courtyard, Leliana could hear the singing of soldiers and citizens alike, all holding a candle for their Hero. She would be expected to join them soon. If it weren’t for the display of her love, Leliana might have felt able to move her feet. Able to breathe. But there was Neria, pale and dead and beautiful, laid out on a slab and surrounded by flowers and greenery. Andraste’s Grace, of course. The smell filled Leliana’s senses and made her chest clench in agony. 

“Leliana.”

A gruff, strained voice tore her away from her sorrow. Leliana looked away from Neria’s body to see Loghain. It was no surprise to her that he looked troubled and pained. She knew the complicated friendship that had bloomed between him and the Hero of Ferelden was unexpected and genuine. Neria had just always had that effect on people and even the disgraced Teryn was unable to avoid it in their brief time together. Leliana softened, seeing the grief in Loghain’s expression as their eyes met. He was deliberately avoiding the sight of Neria. The man cleared his throat and produced a letter from his breast pocket.

“Oh,” Leliana sighed, taking the folded parchment. Delicate script spelled out her name and Leliana knew its author. It made her eyes water anew.

“The warden, she...asked me to give this to you, should the worst occur. I am sorry for your loss.”

“And I am sorry for yours, Loghain. Thank you.” Despite her broken state, Leliana’s voice did not quiver. She understood the uncomfortable murmur the man gave in response. He was, after all, the last to ever get to know Neria. His grief would never run as deep as Leliana’s, but she still recognized it in him. They had all had their lives touched by Neria in some way. He nodded solemnly to the bard and excused himself with nothing left to stay. Trembling now, she looked at the letter in her hand. These would be the last words she would receive from her lover. The weight of that fact almost kept her from opening the parchment. Nonetheless, it was unfolded, revealing a page of what was unmistakably Neria’s handwriting. Leliana felt a single hot tear trace its way down her cheek.

_My love,  
I am sorry. I write this hoping you will never receive it, but part of me knows my fate come tomorrow. This is no one’s fault, my love, and perhaps I should have warned you but I could not bring myself to it. You won’t understand and you’ll be angry and hurt. Please do not put blame on yourself, nor Alistair, nor Loghain, if he lives. I made a decision. It was my duty, my pledge. In death, sacrifice.   
It is my hope that this letter will bring you fond memories in the years to come, wherever your adventure takes you. I know it will be a long and beautiful life that you lead, Leliana, and I am only sorry that I was not at your side for more of it. I want you to know that the time we did have changed me in ways I could never explain. Leaving the tower, joining the Wardens, meeting you and everyone else...I thought I knew everything about the world until I saw it. There are so many places to walk and sensations to feel and magnificent things to see. I never could have imagined that life was like this. You showed me, Leli, and if I die, I know I will leave this realm remembering you over all else. I always said the Circle was my home but it is not; you are my home. We will not see the world hand-in-hand as I promised but I know you will see enough for the both of us. Think of me and I will be there, in some way. My only wish now is that you one day will be able to remember me and smile. I smile now thinking of you.  
I love you. Thank you for showing me what that means._

_Yours eternally,  
Neria_

__The letter was folded again and held gently against Leliana’s chest. She shut her eyes and allowed herself, finally, to cry. As she grieved, the remains of her beloved were being gathered and lifted by the Orlesian wardens in attendance. They were to escort Neria to Weisshaupt. Leliana would never see her again.  
She sighed. The letter was handled delicately, folded over once more to fit into her pocket. That memento, those words from her love, would remain with Leliana for the rest of her days._ _


End file.
